


reconciliation process

by Attempted Eloquence (ringsiderage)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Friends to Enemies, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Other, Your choice!, can be read as romantic or platonic, idk I don't think it's that sad but it's definitely not happy lmao, kind of ??, season 5a/5b rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28953324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ringsiderage/pseuds/Attempted%20Eloquence
Summary: “Stiles?”It hurts to hear his name like that, so gently spilling past lips that moments prior spat insults at him without a care. His trembling fingers still against his keyboard and he blinks past the glare of his laptop screen to turn his gaze upon Theo.That’s a mistake. The boy looks wrecked. Barely-there and dead behind the eyes.A paper-thin smile flits over Theo’s lips. Stiles thinks finally, this is him. Not acting anymore, not playing up the good-guy façade that he puts on for Scott and the rest.“Don’t you wish we were kids again?”...Eight years after Tara Raeken’s burial, Stiles witnesses Theo’s.
Relationships: Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken & Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 82





	reconciliation process

**Author's Note:**

> so basically I rewatched the first half of Theo's arc and got mad Steo feels and wrote this shit on a whim, whoops. Not super polished, but I hope it's a good read anyway!  
> CW: mention of canonical character death(s)

_1.Trust me, I never thought I’d see you guys again._

The day that Stiles found out that Theo had left Beacon Hills without warning he was having a sleepover at Scott’s. Inconsolable even through Melissa’s tight embrace and offers of milk and cookies. Cried so hard the rest of the night that his dad left the station to take him back home because, _no, this can’t be just about Theo, it’s about Claudia. He’s had such a hard time since she—_

He wore the same suit to Tara's funeral as he did to his mom's. And it was terrible, but he felt like he shared his grief with Theo. 

So maybe it was about both. 

Theo when he returns isn’t the scrawny, asthmatic kid always trailing behind him and Scott. _But Scott isn’t a scrawny asthmatic kid anymore, either._ Right. Putting on a hundred pounds of muscle and looking like the cover of a magazine must be a werewolf thing, then. 

But this Theo, the one that stands before him and Scott with an easy grin and rehearsed charm isn’t the haunted boy that stood limp and lifeless in Stiles’s arms at Tara’s wake. This Theo speaks of fourth grade memories and childhood nostalgia as if the last time Stiles and Scott had seen him wasn’t when they buried his older sister. 

A single memory out of dozens of others he could’ve shared may be enough to lull Scott into persuasion, but it’s hardly convincing to Stiles. 

When Stiles tells Scott, “there’s something off about him, I can feel it,” he means _Theo was my best friend_ , _never yours._ He means, _I still have the friendship bracelet he gave me during recess. He gave you one too, but you didn’t keep it._ He means Theo wouldn’t come back to Beacon Hills just shy of a decade later to kiss the true alpha’s ass without bothering to spare a glance at Stiles. Theo wouldn’t. Not if he's really _that same kid from fourth grade_.

Get the story, verify the facts, find the piece that doesn’t fit. 

Fact. Theo Raeken’s sister Tara fell off a bridge and died when they were nine. 

Fact. Her death was ruled an accident. A tragic accident. 

Fact. The Raekens moved out of Beacon Hills two days after her funeral. 

Fact. Theo Raeken returned eight years later in the right place at the right time with fangs and claws and golden eyes. 

Fact. ~~Theo Raeken is a packless beta werewolf.~~

“It doesn’t add up. Why would he come back here if he met and spoke to one of the surviving betas from his original pack? And, what, his ‘family’ was cool with packing up and moving back now?” he presses. 

“Stiles, dude, I don’t know,” Scott sighs. “You heard him, he’s alone. If we can’t give him a pack the least we can do is give him our friendship.”

 _2\. Who do you think I am?_

Stiles can’t admit to Liam that two hours into their three-hour stakeout at Theo’s house he’d already forgotten why they came in the first place. He gets too caught up in observing Theo through his bedroom window. Watching him clumsily press buttons on the controller in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration, and, alright it’s a little sad. Stiles doesn’t even need to see what video game Theo’s playing to know he’s bad at it. Wants to knock on the front door and throw all his suspicions out the window, pick up a controller and sit beside his _former_ friend and say _here,_ _this is how you’re supposed to do it_. 

But he’s still got the two signatures in his back pocket and remembers, even as he watches Theo mourn his fucking sister— _I am a terrible, terrible person_ —that they’re being lied to about something. And when he and Liam get caught, Stiles tries to compare the mental image of the boy burying his sister to the one before them. The one who still manages to flash a casual grin after visiting the spot where Tara died. 

Again, something doesn’t add up. 

Tara’s been dead almost as long as his mother has, but Stiles still cannot so much as think of the day he lost her without grief pooling in his lungs, caving in his chest. And Theo and Tara were _close,_ so how can Theo so easily just— 

Maybe he’s projecting.

Stiles is physically incapable of holding back an eye-roll when Theo discloses once again that he returned to Beacon Hills for Scott. He gets it, Theo’s taken to reminiscing on simpler times and has conveniently erased Stiles from all of those memories. Like it wasn’t Stiles that came over and watched Star Wars with him after an asthma attack sent him to the hospital. Like it wasn’t Theo who had admitted under the cover of their blanket fort that he hated baseball, only joined Little League because Stiles did. 

And it’s _not fair_ how his annoyance is shattered just a moment later when Theo gazes at him with those grey-blue eyes— _oh, this is what Malia was talking about, he’s not just hot, he’s fucking pretty_ —and confesses, “I also came back for you.” 

It’s not convincing, only because it’s exactly what Stiles wanted to hear and Theo somehow seems to _know_ that. One of the few instances that he doesn’t want supernatural hearing, doesn't wish he heard if Theo’s heartbeat skipped at the words. 

He’s not sure why the words _prove it_ are stuck to the tip of his tongue. 

~~Proof always trumps instinct.~~

_3\. Please don’t say anything._

Ever since Donovan threatened his dad in the station Stiles has recurrent nightmares about the sheriff’s throat being slit open. Even after Donovan attacks _him_ , images of his dad being stabbed haunt his waking hours. It’d be easier for Stiles to watch himself die every night. Much easier than waking up every morning with the taste of blood in his mouth and the fear that someone else in his life has departed. 

He kills Donovan, watches him writhe helplessly against the steel bar sticking through his abdomen— _I am a murderer, I am fleeing a crime scene, there is blood on my hands so much blood_ —but the nightmares are still about his dad. 

Donovan is dead. His father is alive. A little soap and warm water scrubs away the red staining his hands. He’s not sure what will scrub out the memory, though. 

One gruesome image is swapped for another when he witnesses Theo tearing Josh’s throat out. Watches Theo let blood trickle from his fingertips without batting an eye. Stiles can’t help but wonder if he looked the same standing before Donovan’s corpse. Theo’s pleading, or something like that. Something like _don’t tell_ , but Stiles has a hard time processing the words leaving his mouth. Only sees the clotted flesh clinging to the other boy’s claws. 

But then Theo is in his face, tight grip wrapped around his arms, and it’s the most grounded Stiles has felt all week. Staring at that insincere face he used to know. Observing the way Theo manages to hold himself together in the face of death. Did Stiles remember it wrong? Tara’s funeral, Theo mute and unmoving in his embrace, his stuttering breaths the only indication that he wasn’t actually the child who'd died. Was he always this composed?

No. 

Stiles chooses to believe Theo is remembering _himself_ wrong. It’s an easier conclusion to draw than accepting that eight years have passed and he doesn’t know his best friend anymore. Easier than accepting the idea that Stiles might’ve been the one chasing Theo as a kid and not the other way around. 

So fuck Theo. Fuck the way he waltzed back into his life, and his _“I only saw what you saw and I didn’t say anything because you didn’t,”_ and fuck the way he keeps using the word “we.” 

Keeping each other’s secrets like little kids again. Accidental partners in crime. What a fucking joke. 

_4\. All I’ve ever wanted is for you guys to trust me_

Stiles does his best to keep his eyes on the livestream feed fixed to the rearview mirror because he’d have to stare at Theo and his broken doll face otherwise. If there’s a manual on how to act when you’re in a car with your ex-best friend that returned as a beautiful and completely untrustworthy stranger, Stiles wishes he would’ve read it before now. 

He doesn’t want to trust Theo, ~~_he doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t_ ~~ but then Theo brings up Tara and his voice falls just short of fond when he says _and a pain in the ass like you_. Those might be the only honest words he’s spoken since coming back. 

“She always looked out for me. The same way you look out for Scott.” 

Stiles doesn’t say _you weren’t around for me to look out for_ because sketchy ass liar or not, it’s not... _couldn’t have been_ Theo’s fault that his family moved away after Tara died. Though it’s hard to believe it now, Theo was a child then. Not the smooth-talking, self-assured teenage imitation he is today.

He doesn’t ask what happened or why they left so suddenly even though it’s what he wants to know the most. Sure, Theo can maybe control his heartbeat and put on an act, but Jesus Christ Stiles hopes more than anything that the quaver of Theo’s voice, the unshed tears shining in his eyes as he recalls finding Tara’s body, are authentic. 

Even if everything else is fake. Let that be true. 

Stiles breathes in. He doesn’t trust Theo. Breathes out. He also doesn’t want Theo to hurt. Not like that. 

So really, Stiles hopes Theo is a master manipulator because otherwise he’ll hate himself for pouring so much energy into distrusting the boy when he could’ve instead been…

Reacquainting himself with an old friend, maybe. Let’s go with that. 

_You spend five hours in a car with Theo Raeken and_ —

Somehow they fall into a natural banter, like there wasn't an eight-year gap where they no longer existed in each other’s lives. There are still sharp edges to all of the words that leave his mouth, and Theo’s tone drips with a resigned sort of exasperation like he knows he won’t get Stiles to trust him so easily. But the longer they talk the less guarded Theo appears. Relaxes the furrow in his brow, slouches into the passenger seat like he’s given up on his display of decency.

Somehow, it seems easier to trust him this way. When he’s ranting about justifiable homicide and not pretending to be _good_. 

_I could like this guy_ , Stiles thinks. 

But the moment is ruined when Theo gets punched so hard that he spits blood across Stiles’s face. And it’s warm. And it’s the closest he’s gotten to holding Theo in his arms again. 

The world tilts, his head splits against the pavement, and in the murky depths of unconsciousness he dreams of grey-blue eyes glazed over, of blood staining a pretty mouth. 

_5\. 1-8-7_

Theo doesn’t take him to a hospital—although he seems to want to ditch Stiles _somewhere_ —given that the Jeep just _spontaneously combusted_. And got flipped over. It’s a much shorter walk to his house. 

So they walk almost side-by-side down empty streets in a silence punctuated only by their staggered footsteps. Theo’s blood spatter—cooling in the crisp nighttime air—still clings to his skin but its presence might be the only thing distracting from the incessant ache rattling his skull with every step.

Stiles idly wonders if the wolf’s given up on talking to him, on trying to convince him that he has only benevolent intentions given his sudden reticence. He doesn’t know what to do with this void of conversation; He can analyze each and every one of Theo’s words and microexpressions but without the overconfident timbre of that voice grating his ears, Stiles is left to focus on the fact Theo is walking a few steps ahead of him, _leading the way_ to his house. 

Something in his stomach flutters. Maybe that’s nausea. 

He can’t hate Theo right now. Not when he’s blank-faced with dried blood crusted beneath his nose, both hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and trudging in the direction of Stiles’s home from memory. For once he seems like he’s not pretending to be anything, not even nice. _Not even a person, really._

Theo stops in his tracks, back going rigid. Stiles does the same, scanning the streets for whatever supernatural shithead is going to attack them next.

But Theo turns over his shoulder, gazes at Stiles with sharp eyes hidden behind an inscrutable expression, and murmurs, “Not even a person. S’that what you think?” 

Stiles gapes at him, because _shit, he can read minds?_ But the aggravated little sigh that Theo exhales lets him know that he’s been thinking out loud. 

“I think I’m concussed,” he announces, deliberately this time. As if on cue, the ache in his head increases tenfold and he doesn’t bother holding back a wince. “Nothing’s really making sense right now.” 

Theo turns back around and continues walking again. Slower this time, enough so that with a few strides Stiles has caught up to him. He keeps silent, mostly because he’s worried about spewing more word-vomit that Theo will definitely use against him. 

A few times along the way Stiles loses his balance, the world wobbling and vision teetering as he trips over his feet and stumbles into Theo. 

And Theo? He just narrows his eyes, steps halting as he takes a hand out of his pocket to steady Stiles. He’s feeling near giddy— _it’s the concussion, it’s definitely the concussion_ —by the time they approach his front yard. His dad isn’t home, which is a relief given that he’s just been personally escorted by the same guy he’s been complaining about for weeks. And, said guy stops just short of the driveway, something Stiles doesn’t notice till he fumbles with the lock and turns around to spot Theo watching impassively from the sidewalk. 

“Thanks,” he whispers. 

Theo flashes him a smile that looks like a threat.

_6\. I know he won’t blame you._

“Well he was going to kill my dad,” Stiles grits his teeth. “Huh, was I supposed to just let him?” 

“You weren’t supposed to do this. None of us are.” 

And all he can hear is that stupid voice in his ear, _you need to look up the definition of justifiable homicide_.

Stiles isn’t sure how yet, but he knows this is Theo’s fault. Hates that he’s not even upset about being thrown under the bus by someone he didn’t trust to begin with, but instead about the fact that his actual best friend—the one who didn’t disappear for eight years—is judging him for _defending himself_. 

He wants to say, _and Theo killed Josh_ , but Stiles actually keeps secrets when he’s asked to. 

“You think I had a choice?” he asks, incredulous. 

Scott counters with, “There’s always a choice.” 

It’s pouring rain and he’s cold, but Scott’s chest is heaving, and he’s staring at Stiles in a way he never has before. Like he’s _disappointed_. Leaves a chill in his bones deeper than the rain ever could. 

It fucking hurts. 

“Yeah, well I can’t do what you can, Scott!”

 _Some of us have to make mistakes._

And he raises the bloody wrench in his hand not because he’s actually considering bludgeoning Scott with it but because they’re _arguing_ and he’s angry and feels betrayed, so he’s allowed to be anything other than calm and put together like the true alpha Scott fucking McCall when he’s upset. 

Scott flinches. 

Flinches away from the wimpy, haggard human killer standing before him, wielding a _wrench_. 

That probably hurts more.

_7\. Wanted to spend some quality time with you._

Stiles had to walk home again, left the Jeep right where it broke down, and plodded into an empty house bogged down by his own desolation. Stripped off his rain-soaked clothes and slid into a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. 

Everything is falling apart. He’s not sure that he can put it back together. 

~~_Scott just tell me how to fix this, alright? Tell me what you want me to do._ ~~

He grabs a marker and glares at the crime board that gets more convoluted every time he returns to it. Draws angry circles around his scrawl of _Theo Raeken_. Rifles through his dresser, clothes spewing from its insides until he finds it at the back of his sock drawer. 

The bracelet. Red and blue plastic beads on a frayed piece of yarn, two white beads in the center with one letter on each of them: S.T. 

Anger wanes, replaced with a dull ache that gnaws at his chest, hollows him out. Stiles blinks and the bracelet has been torn apart beneath his fingers, its beads spilling across the carpet. 

Stiles can’t fix that either. 

There’s a creak outside his window, and another. Then the slow scraping of the window frame as it’s pushed open. One leg planting itself on the floor and another following soon after. 

Maybe he should be scared. Alarmed, at least. But whilst regarding the figure breaking into his room, he’s mostly just tired. There’s no manual for what to do when your enemy shows up at your bedroom window pretending to be your best friend. 

“I didn’t invite you in here. Get out,” Stiles breathes, voice just as raw and ragged as he is. 

“I’m not a vampire,” Theo snorts, climbing the rest of the way in and shutting the window behind him. “Don’t need your invitation.” 

Theo’s gaze sweeps across the bedroom, taking in its clutter of posters and knick-knacks and landing last on the dry-erase crime board taking up a good chunk of the room. He stalks forward, same insincere smirk playing on his lips. 

“My name is circled. Guess I’m a pretty important player in whatever you’re figuring out here.” 

“I think you already knew that,” Stiles mutters. He scrubs a hand over his face, almost expecting the boy before him to disappear, but when he moves his hand he’s still staring at a pair of cold grey-blue eyes. 

“Last I checked, we’ve got the same amount of blood on our hands. Gonna write your name up there, too?” 

Stiles ignores the jab, trudging over to his desk to pull out his laptop; he hasn’t done homework in days and it’s not like he’ll be getting any sleep with his evil, conniving ex-best friend looming behind him. 

“No, of course not,” Theo continues, swirling a finger along the circles until he’s effectively smudged away the emphasis on his name. “Because this board is for the bad guys, and you’re not one of those, right?” 

“Listen,” Stiles sighs, hates the defeated tone of his own voice, “I don’t know why you’re here, but if getting Scott to hate me was a part of your masterplan, it worked. Feel free to fuck off now.” 

Theo removes his gaze from the crime board and takes a step toward Stiles, mouth parting to speak until something cracks beneath his boot. He stoops down and retrieves the splintered pieces of a white bead. _S._

Stiles watches him cradle the bead in his hand like a precious thing, watches Theo’s gaze trail downwards where the rest of the bracelet is scattered. His eye twitches, jaw clenches, and then his expression smooths back out to blankness. Like Theo’s just a chalk outline of himself. Stiles isn’t sure the kid who made that bracelet is even in there anymore. 

_Look at that, broken doll boy almost expressed an emotion_. Huh. 

Theo’s quiet for too long, like he’d forgotten what his next line is. Skin-crawling silence that reminds Stiles too much of the last time he saw Theo before he left. So he clears his throat, forces himself to speak. 

“Look—”

“Stiles?” 

It hurts to hear his name like that, so gently spilling past lips that moments prior spat insults at him without a care. His trembling fingers stiffen against his keyboard and he blinks past the glare of his laptop screen to turn his gaze upon Theo. 

That’s a mistake. The boy looks wrecked. Barely-there and dead behind the eyes. 

A paper-thin smile flits over Theo’s lips. Stiles thinks _finally_ , this is him. Not acting anymore, not playing up the good-guy façade that he puts on for Scott and the rest. 

“Don’t you wish we were kids again?” 

_I am being used_ , Stiles reminds himself, _this is manipulation._

But Theo’s gazing at him with such a soft, blank stare. Stiles darts a tongue out to wet his lips. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

He wishes his mom never got sick and wishes he didn’t have to constantly fret over his dad’s wellbeing and wishes he hadn’t witnessed so much death this early in life and most of all he wishes he would’ve held Theo a little tighter at Tara’s funeral, like that might’ve made a difference. 

Theo seems satisfied enough with that answer as he takes a step closer. Stretches out a hand that Stiles briefly thinks will wrap around his throat— _if this is my end, at this point I welcome it_ —but instead lands in his hair, fingers carding through the locks before the boy draws back. 

“It’s longer. Looks nice,” Theo mumbles, and Stiles wonders how he can make even the gentlest touches feel like an act of violence. 

The wolf crosses over to the other side of the room. He lies down on top of the Stiles’s bedspread. Closes his eyes. Doesn’t open them, not even when he asks, “Did you miss me?” 

_I might’ve missed the old you, not whatever you turned into. Not the imposter that wears your face._

Stiles doesn’t get a chance to answer because his dad returns home. Theo raises his head, cracks open an eye, something like amusement flitting across his expression before he lies back down unmoving. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach, he’s not quite sure how to explain to his father why the person holding the number one spot on his hit list is taking a nap on his fucking bed. 

He listens to his dad drag himself up the stairs— _when did he start moving so slowly?_ —and waits with bated breath for a knock on his door. 

The door swings wide open instead, a frown on his father’s face that only stretches further when he lays eyes on Theo in his bed. His voice is tight when he asks, “Stiles? Can I talk to you for a minute?” 

Theo doesn’t budge, doing his best imitation of a sleeping body even though Stiles knows he’ll listen to every word of their conversation. But he follows his dad down the hall anyway, tries to keep his face straight when the sheriff says, “I thought you didn’t trust this kid.” 

And it’s true. He doesn’t, not even a little bit. 

Well, maybe a little bit. Enough to let Theo stare at his crime board and sleep atop his bed like he’s not going to use any information he garnered from the bedroom against Stiles. 

“Yeah, but…” he trails off, doesn’t even know how to finish that thought. Can’t explain to his dad that Scott currently thinks he’s a corrupt killer and that Theo with his blunt, dishonest detachment is the closest thing to comfort for Stiles right now. 

The boy sleeping in his bed is bad news, Stiles knows that. 

“I don’t. He just...he showed up.”

His father sighs, heavy and exasperated. Looks like he wants to press the subject more, but settles for a parental request of, “Be careful, alright?” 

Stiles nods like a bobblehead, watching his father traipse back down the stairs with a troubled “ _Goodnight_ ,” before he waltzes back into his bedroom. Theo is standing by the window, his cellphone grasped in his hand.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks. The words come out more forlorn than he intended. 

Theo stares at him, a long, searching look. But there’s nothing vulnerable in the way he holds his body anymore, nothing honest in his closed-off expression. 

Then he smirks, and Stiles wishes he’d never let the boy into his room in the first place. 

“Scott needs me.” 

_8\. I’m here for a pack._

It’s bullshit that Stiles instinctively calls Theo instead of Scott when he sees Parrish taking the bodies. 

Even more bullshit that Theo says, “ _I came for void Stiles,”_ when he wasn’t even there to witness the damage that was done, the calamity that he and the Nogitsune brought to Beacon Hills. The nightmares that still plague Stiles to this day. And, really, it shouldn’t feel so satisfying to know that Theo’s ideal pack doesn’t include Scott, that Theo returned to Beacon Hills for _Stiles_.

_S.T._

He revels in that satisfaction, just a little bit, until Theo says, _“I’ll tell you where your dad is if you promise not to help Scott.”_

Fist meets nose, fist meets nose again. _Why is he laughing, he shouldn’t be laughing, this isn’t Void Stiles, this is normal Stiles angry. Maybe if he stuck around, he would’ve known that. Maybe if_ —

“We won’t tell Scott, ‘cause you can’t lose your best friend, right?” 

Theo’s voice shouldn’t sound this bitter, this _mournful_. If he wanted Stiles to be his fucking friend he could’ve had it. That and more. Instead, he came to Beacon Hills to tear Stiles from the only other best friend he had, to rip all the good things in his life away from him. 

Theo is on the ground, letting himself be pinned between Stiles’s knees, letting Stiles internally debate whether or not his hands are strong enough to strangle the life out of him. 

He taunts. Makes Stiles choose between his dad and Scott, like he's allowed to have that kind of power. 

But Stiles can’t take that risk, _he can’t, it’s not fair, not fair at all, he can’t lose anyone else, especially not another parent, why him, why is it always him_ —

_9\. You hate me now, but you'll get over it eventually._

He’s crying in the E.R. waiting room, forgetting how old he is, and _no, it’s not just about Theo, it’s about the sheriff, he’s having such a hard time since_ — 

_Stiles, you need to get up, you gotta get up now._

Melissa said his dad would be okay, but he’s not, he’s not and they say they don’t know what’s wrong but how is that possible when he made it out of surgery just fine, and—

It’s Theo’s doing. Of course it is. But Scott’s in front of Stiles right now and he has to take out his fucking desperation on _someone_. 

“You trusted him,” he snaps, fists clenched on Scott’s jacket, “You believed him.”

_Over me._

His voice is hoarse when he yells, “So where were you? Where the hell were you?” 

But this is what he wants, for Stiles to be at Scott’s throat. And Theo, he... _came to my house and pretended to be my friend and gutted my dad as a distraction._

“He’ll come to me,” Stiles says when they finally pull together a plan. Something to stop this rampage. 

Theo will come to Stiles. Just like he did that night in his bedroom. Just like he did on the roof. 

Just like he did at Tara’s funeral. 

_10._ _I guess we’re all telling the truth now._

He isn’t wrong. Theo comes, crossing over the mountain ash barrier and into Scott’s house like it’s nothing. Stiles says, _“You killed my best friend,”_ and maybe he’s not just talking about Scott. 

Theo asks, “Was he still really your best friend?” 

But Theo _knows_ how hurt Stiles was that night after he and Scott argued, and Scott is right there, listening, and Stiles can’t possibly admit that he didn’t believe it either. That for one night, the true alpha wasn’t the best friend Stiles thought he was. 

So he changes the subject, questions, “Are you going to let my father die?” 

Because that’s what’s happening right now. The Sheriff of Beacon County is in the ICU, tubes protruding from every orifice, dying. Multiple system organ failure. 

And Stiles is here, confronting his former friend, still trying to wrap his mind around it. 

“I’m not the bad guy, Stiles.” 

The worst part is that Theo believes it. Believes his own statement with the sort of conviction that has to be instilled in a person. Doesn't come about naturally. 

“I’m a survivor,” Theo continues. “If you knew the things that I knew—”

But Stiles doesn’t, because Theo won’t _tell him_. So he’s left instead to stare at the familiar stranger in front of him and wonder what the fuck happened to turn him into this monster. 

He asks about his dad again, demands, even, and Theo shoves him. Shoves him like he can’t stand to be touched by Stiles. Like he’s afraid of finding out how Stiles’s hands feel on his skin. Luckily he’s too unconscious to witness the utter despair on Theo’s face as his head collides with the stairs. It’s easier to hate the boy when thinking of him as a cold, uncaring thing. 

_You trusted him, too. Theo got to all of us._

_11\. Self-defense_

Stiles doesn’t want to know why Theo protected him, lied to the sheriff to keep that dirty little murderous secret safe. He doesn’t. 

But when his father—alive, so fucking alive—asks if he really felt like he couldn’t talk to him about Donovan, all Stiles can wonder is, _why didn’t Theo tell?_

Maybe because...

_“Even if you don’t trust me, and even if you don’t like me, I’m still going to be looking out for you.”_

And his dad talks about the battle between Stiles’s head and his heart even though he doesn’t know that it’s the same war he’s been caught up in since Theo returned. And maybe Stiles is a little too honest when he admits, “I feel like I lost something.”

_Someone._

“You know, I feel like I can’t get it back.” 

He’s simultaneously relieved and hopeless when his father says, “You won’t.”

_12\. Damnatio Memoriae_

Fact. Theo Raeken left Beacon Hills two days after Tara’s funeral. His parents did not. 

Fact. Tara Raeken’s death was not a tragic accident, but a premeditated murder. Theo killed her. 

Fact. Theo Raeken is a chimera, not a packless beta werewolf. 

Fact. Theo Raeken walked away from his childhood and spent the next eight years under the tutelage of the Dread Doctors. 

Fact. Stiles wants to hate him for it, but only manages to feel sorry. 

So, so sorry. 

_13\. You’re going to have to trust me._

Stiles and Theo are ambling through the tunnels looking for Lydia, because apparently they do everything together. Little League, mourning, murder, kidnapping. How cute. Perhaps they’ll soon have new friendship bracelets, only this time they’ll look a lot like handcuffs. 

It’s a low blow, hurling Theo murdering his sister back at him. But the chimera doesn’t look offended nor aggravated by the accusation, just fatigued. Unsurprised. 

“Yeah, I was nine years old,” Theo echoes. 

_He was a kid, just like you, it’s not fair, you can’t just blame him like_ —

“So when three people in leather masks showed up and said that my sister wanted me to have her heart, I believed them, too.”

Like how Stiles believed Theo trembled in his grasp out of grief, not guilt. 

Stiles wishes he knew how to be anything other than mean right now, but he doesn’t. Mocks Theo’s recollection of watching his sister freeze to death as a defense mechanism. Cannot afford to be swayed by more of his lies right now, not when it matters so much. 

“Do you think I had any idea what was going on?”

“I think you pushed her,” Stiles replies. Tries his best to imitate the cold tone Theo’s gotten so good at over the years when he adds, “And I think you liked it.” 

Theo and his blank doll face crack, like that bead beneath his boot a few nights prior. Just like that. 

_14\. You still think you’re gonna get through all this without killing anyone?_

Stiles wishes he could say that all of them survived, but when he arrives in the tunnels moments after the beast’s fall, just in time to hear Kira say _the Skinwalkers have a message for you, Theo,_ just in time to see that fearless face crumple into terror, Stiles knows it’s untrue. 

He watches Kira strike the earth beneath their feet, watches a rift travel toward Theo’s feet and, _wait, Scott didn’t tell him about this, he didn’t know this is what would happen_ —

Stiles doesn’t know _how_ , but Tara is there crawling up from the depths. Mess of dark hair obscuring her face, mud-caked hands reaching for her younger brother’s ankles. He has to bite the inside of his cheek until he draws blood to hold back the banshee-rivaling scream threatening to tear its way out his throat. 

This isn’t okay. 

He takes a shuddery breath in. Theo deserves to be punished. Barely manages to breathe out. But not like this. 

Theo is begging, tears in his eyes that Stiles wouldn’t even dare call fake. 

_Stiles, help me._

He takes a step forward, body moving out of pure instinct, but can’t bring himself to continue onward. Theo’s submerged to his chin and his voice cracks and he sounds entirely too young and desperate. 

_No! Help me, Stiles!_

Stiles is stock-still, desperately blinking away the tears clouding his vision only because he wants to be able to see Theo’s face, to see him and know that he’s leaving this time. Theo and his pleas disappear down a gaping hole in the ground the same size as the one in Stiles’s chest. 

Another cemetery plot. Another void. 

Fact. Eight years after Tara Raeken’s burial, Stiles witnesses Theo’s.

**Author's Note:**

> OOF idek what that was tbh but I hope you enjoyed!! I almost never read (nor write) Steo but have always felt compelled to do so, so here it is~ Thank you for reading! It's so weird for me to randomly bust out a one-shot after literally only working on one fic for such a long time (but there might be more to come!) If you enjoyed, feel free to leave kudos/comments/whatnot and lmk! :)


End file.
